


(You're) The Bun That I Want

by theladyscribe



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, M/M, Pittsburgh Penguins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-16 22:16:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7286752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In addition to their underlings ("our sons," Amanda is fond of calling them, even though Dumo rolls his eyes and reminds her that they're the same age), they've also acquired several regulars. Mr. Letang, the francophone lawyer, buys a baguette every day. A Russian couple, often accompanied by a friend, spend most of their Friday afternoons sipping hot chocolates and laughing at each other. Amanda and Conor think the couple is trying to seduce their friend, but Phil is skeptical about that. A professor from Carnegie Mellon likes to host his small group discussions on Shakespeare at the long table to one side of the room. Amanda's teammates from her women's hockey league all make regular appearances, which become more frequent as the winter gets colder.</p><p>And then there's Carl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(You're) The Bun That I Want

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to hazel_3017 for the beta and to jediseagull for the excellent title.

Phil rises at dawn like the dough in his bins and starts the workday at Kessels and Sons. He makes quick work of firing up the ovens and starting the first pot of coffee. Dumo, his apprentice, arrives half an hour later to help with the morning prep before the shop opens.

"What's on the menu for today?" Dumo asks as he ties on his apron.

"The usual — baguettes, yeast rolls, pies with the berries I got from Flower," Phil says. He reaches into the oven and starts pulling out the first batch of bear claws. "And these."

Dumo peers at them. "New recipe?"

"Yep," Phil answers as he sets them on a rack to cool. "Two of them, actually. We can taste test after we finish prep. Get moving on the baguettes, okay? Mr. Letang told Amanda yesterday he'd be in early today — his wife's hosting a party tonight, and they're gonna be buying extra."

The two of them hustle through their morning routine, and when the baguettes are in the oven and the breakfast pastries tucked into the glass display case, they sit down to a plate of bear claws.

"Okay," Phil says, slicing a piece off the first one, "try this."

Dumo picks it up and bites into it, chewing slowly. "Is this quince? And...manchego?"

Phil smiles. "Got it in one. How's it taste?"

Dumo chews some more and swallows. "Good. Surprising. I like the bite from the manchego; it pairs nicely with the quince."

"Good. Now this one."

"Lingonberry. And lemon curd," Dumo says as soon as he put it in his mouth. He picks up the rest of the pastry and quickly finishes it off. "I like this one more, I think. The first has a little too much manchego, not enough quince."

"All right. We'll go with the lingonberry today. Save the manchego for another day. I want to get the first full batch out in time for second breakfast, so let's get moving."

Phil finishes showing Dumo how to make the lingonberry and curd mixture as the back door opens and Amanda walks in.

"Morning, losers," she says cheerfully. "Hope you're ready, it's gonna be a beautiful day."

"Second batches are ready to go, so we're all set," Phil tells her, wiping his hands on a towel. "Dumo can handle the rest of the breakfast prep, so I'm gonna head out. I'll be back after lunch, okay?"

"No problemo, bro," Amanda answers. "Shears should be here soon. He and Junior are late shift today, so see you tomorrow if not before."

Phil waves at her and heads out. He'll go home and walk Stella, take a nap, and make a late lunch before returning to the bakery for the last hour to close the shop and prep for tomorrow. 

*

Kessels and Sons has been Phil and Amanda's project since the siblings moved to Pittsburgh, and he's pleased to say that it's thrived. Phil makes the food, and Amanda manages the accounts and the front. They found their crew after some trial and error: Dumo has a knack for yeast doughs and the savory side of pastries that Phil has never been able to conquer; they pilfered Conor from a corporate coffeehouse to man their cappuccino machine; and Junior, née Tom, is a steady hand at the cash register even at the busiest of lunch hours.

In addition to their underlings ("our sons," Amanda is fond of calling them, even though Dumo rolls his eyes and reminds her that they're the same age), they've also acquired several regulars. Mr. Letang, the francophone lawyer, buys a baguette every day. A Russian couple, often accompanied by a friend, spend most of their Friday afternoons sipping hot chocolates and laughing at each other. Amanda and Conor think the couple is trying to seduce their friend, but Phil is skeptical about that. A professor from Carnegie Mellon likes to host his small group discussions on Shakespeare at the long table to one side of the room. Amanda's teammates from her women's hockey league all make regular appearances, which become more frequent as the winter gets colder.

And then there's Carl.

Carl appeared like a vision in the doorway one day, dressed to the nines, his long hair curling around his ears from the humidity, and he keeps coming back. Phil doesn't actually know what he does for a living, but he's always in flattering suits, as if he just stepped off a magazine cover. He has startling blue eyes and a jawline that looks like it was sculpted out of marble. Phil might be a little in love with him.

Carl comes in every day between three and four and orders a small black coffee and a plain bear claw. It drives Phil crazy.

He makes two batches of bear claws every day, one with the traditional almond paste and the other with whatever filling inspires him, and every day, Carl asks for a small black coffee and a plain bear claw, apparently unimpressed by Phil's efforts to dress up a frankly boring dessert pastry. Phil has been subtly fishing for information, and upon finding out that Carl is Swedish, he began incorporating more European-influenced flavors into his specialty bear claws. To Phil's eternal frustration, they haven't tempted the man away from the almond paste.

"You could just ask him out," Amanda says once when she catches Phil and Junior doing blind taste tests of five different dried cherry blends to go into the next batch of bear claws.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Phil says, glad that Junior is blindfolded so only Amanda can see him turning beet red.

"Right. Anyway, I need my tiny son back out front."

"I'm bigger than you!" Junior huffs around a mouthful of dried cherries as he pulls off the blindfold. "Oh, hey, Phil these are definitely the best ones."

"Thanks, Junior," Phil says. "You can go back out front now." When he's gone, Phil turns back to his sister, who is obviously trying not to laugh at him. "Don't."

"I didn't say a word," she says airily, heading back out front herself.

*

Phil returns to the bakery at three o'clock, precisely one hour before the shop closes. He takes inventory of the display case and checks in with Junior and Conor about the day's sales. They'll balance the register after closing and Junior will take the day's leftovers to the Jubilee soup kitchen, but Phil likes to have a ballpark total before then.

"It's been steady," Junior reports. "Nothing out of the ordinary, except Mr. Letang was crankier than usual."

Conor appears at Phil's elbow. "And the Russians kept knocking their knees into their friend's thigh. Both of them, not just the dude. I think they're making some progress."

Phil raises his eyebrows. "Congratulations to them, I guess?"

"Well, not yet, I don't think they've actually — "

The bell on the door chimes, and in walks Carl, looking as handsome as ever. Phil studiously ignores the nosy and knowing looks from both of his underlings.

"Hey, Carl," Phil says as smoothly as one can in the face of such scrutiny, "the usual?"

"Yes, thank you. To go, please."

Phil pulls the largest almond bear claw from the case and wraps it carefully before handing Conor a small coffee cup. "House roast, black."

Phil slides the bear claw over to Carl and rings up his total, not bothering to read it out to him, since Carl is already handing it over and dropping a dollar in the tip jar.

Once paid, Carl moves over to the drinks counter to get his coffee. As Conor lids his cup, he grins slyly at Phil and says, "Phil's thinking about taking the regular bear claws off the menu for a while. But you'll still come by to see me, right?" Conor uses his megawatt smile on Carl, the one he claims gets him double tips.

"Oh, I, uh, I suppose so." Carl's placid demeanor briefly drops like a rock into a lake before smoothing out as if nothing has disturbed the surface. Phil's stomach drops with it.

He doesn't know what scheme Conor is up to, but he needs to intervene, now.

"Conor doesn't know what he's talking about," Phil rushes to assure Carl. "We were discussing the summer menu, trying to add more seasonal fruits. The bear claws aren't going anywhere."

"Well, that's nice, then," he says. He nods toward the door, shifting awkwardly. "I should be going. Um. Goodbye."

If Phil didn't know any better, he'd say Carl was fleeing. It's strange; he usually lingers at least long enough for his coffee to cool a bit.

Phil turns to Conor as soon as Carl is out the door. "What the hell, Conor?"

"Just trying to figure something out," Conor says. 

"Figure what out?"

"Why Carl is a regular."

Phil frowns. It's pretty obvious that Carl is a regular because he's obsessed with bear claws. That's a no-brainer. Phil figured that out after the first week. But Conor's still got that scheming glint to his eye, the one that says the wheels are turning and he's gathering evidence for a rom-com scenario. Which is why Phil asks, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, no offense, Phil, but bear claws are a dime a dozen at any place that sells coffee and pastries. You can get them _anywhere_. And you can also get a small coffee, black, anywhere that sells coffee. So why be a regular _here_?" Conor leans forward, tapping a finger into the counter for emphasis. "I think he likes somebody."

Phil throws his hands up in the air. "You are ridiculous."

"Maybe the bear claws are just an excuse! Maybe he just likes my coffee, or your cheery disposition. Or maybe he has a crush on Amanda. Or maybe he has a crush on _you_."

Phil stares at Conor, trying to decide whether or not he's being teased. Conor looks earnest, though, the same way he does when he needlessly reports on the activities of the Russian couple and their friend, so Phil decides, no, he's not being teased. It's just Conor being Conor.

"I don't think so." Phil busies himself with closing chores, grabbing a to-go box for the leftover sour cream donuts. He makes a mental note that they're not selling quite as well as they used to; he'll tell Dumo to start cutting back on them.

"Think about it," Conor insists, and here he goes. Phil doesn't have to look to know he's ticking off a list on his fingers. "Carl never comes in any earlier than three o'clock, and usually it's closer to three-thirty, which is after you come in for closing."

"He probably gets off work at three," Phil answers reasonably.

"Okay, but he didn't even become a regular until after that week where you filled in out front because Junior went home with the flu!"

"Well, maybe his work hours changed, or he moved offices, and now he works nearby."

Conor huffs. "Come _on_ , Phil, he asks about you if you're not out front! That's gotta mean something!"

Phil steps back from the pastry case and sets the box of donuts down. "Yeah, it means he's being polite."

Conor lets out a groan. "Junior, tell him! It means something!"

"I mean, he certainly doesn't ask about Dumo," Junior says from across the room, where he's been wiping down tables but also obviously listening in on the conversation.

Phil doesn't know how to respond to that information. He's never noticed Carl talking to him more than the others. Conor is clearly delusional, and Junior is only encouraging him.

Phil finishes tying up the box of donuts. "You're both nuts. He's not into me," he says as he hands Conor the box. "Here, these are ready to go."

Conor dutifully takes the box and heads to the back to load it into his car.

Phil turns to Junior. "Don't encourage him, okay?"

He shrugs noncommittally. "Conor's right, though. He talks to you way more than he talks to the rest of us."

"It doesn't mean anything," Phil says.

"It might."

"It doesn't mean anything," he repeats, but he's not sure if he's trying to convince Junior or himself.

*

Carl misses a day. It's 4:05 PM on a rainy Thursday afternoon, Junior has just left with the pastries for the soup kitchen, and Phil needs to lock the doors so he can work in the back. He shouldn't worry — after all, Carl is a grown man with a job and presumably a life outside of his daily coffee and pastry — but this is the first time Carl hasn't shown up at his usual time almost since he started coming to the bakery.

So Phil is worried, even if it's ridiculous. He won't be telling his sister about this.

Phil double-checks the locks on the front door and starts to lower the safety gate when someone comes splashing up.

It's Carl.

"Am I too late?" he asks. His hair is hanging in soggy strands, and he flips it back from his forehead.

"I was just locking up," Phil says apologetically. He doesn't want Carl to go, so he offers, "Wanna come inside and warm up for a bit? I've still got prep for tomorrow to finish up."

"I won't be a bother?"

Phil thinks it would be impossible for Carl to be a bother, but he just says, "Nah. The company would be nice."

They go inside, and Phil leads Carl into the kitchen.

"You want some coffee?" Phil asks, turning back toward Carl. He's standing in the doorway, his hair dripping onto his collar. "Or a towel?"

Carl shakes his head, scattering droplets. "I'll be okay. Coffee would be good, though."

"It probably won't be as good as Conor's," Phil warns. "We're less discerning about coffee quality in the back than up front."

Carl laughs. "Well, beggars can't be choosers. I'll have whatever you want to give me."

Phil is probably imagining the innuendo, so he busies himself with pouring their drinks. "Black, right?" he asks, trying to pretend he hasn't had Carl's coffee order memorized for months.

"Two sugars, if I can," Carl says. Phil glances over his shoulder, surprised. "I usually skip it, but since there's no bear claws…"

"Sorry about that," Phil says, stirring two sugars into both mugs. He hands one to Carl and nods toward the chairs and table that make up their break area. "We send all the leftovers to Jubilee, so they don't go to waste."

"That's thoughtful of you."

"It was Amanda's idea." Phil sips his coffee so he doesn't have to talk anymore.

Carl watches him with his chin in one hand, the fingers of his other hand tapping absently against the handle of his coffee cup.

Phil takes another sip and sets his mug down. "I should get to work, or I'll be here all night."

Carl sits back as if to rise. "I should probably leave you alone then. It sounds like the rain's let up anyway."

"No! I mean, you can stay," Phil hedges, standing up, "if you want."

Carl hesitates, but he settles back into his seat. "If you're sure."

"I meant it when I said the company'd be nice." He grins slyly. "I might put you to work, though."

Carl stands, too, and starts rolling back his sleeves. "Where do you want me?"

Again, the innuendo gives Phil pause, but he soldiers through without embarrassing himself. "I'm just mixing the pastry dough for tomorrow and mixing fillings for some of the pastries. The flour bins are over there — " he nods toward the labeled bins " — open up the one marked 'puff pastry' and we'll measure it out by weight."

Working with Carl is surprisingly easy. He asks questions as they mix the dough, about what goes into the different breads and pastries Phil makes every day and about Phil himself.

It catches him off-guard, and he asks, reflexively, "Why do you want to know?"

Carl doesn't seem to take offense, gently bumping Phil's elbow before returning to chopping the pecans for tomorrow's baklava. "I come in every day, but I've just realized I hardly know anything about you."

Phil shrugs awkwardly. "I run a bakery with my sister and three college kids. There's not a lot to know."

Carl pauses in his chopping again to turn his blue eyes on Phil. "I very much doubt that," he says.

*

Phil expects his evening with Carl to be a one-off, a one-time thing that doesn't happen again. He half expects Carl never to return to the bakery, disappearing from his life as easily as he first appeared.

But Carl is back the next day, ordering a bear claw and a small coffee from Conor while Phil is occupied signing paychecks at a table. Carl stops by the table before heading out to say, "I had fun last night."

Phil looks up at him, searching for a hint of teasing and finding none. He can feel Conor zeroing in on their conversation, the nosy fucker. "Any time," he says, pointedly ignoring his barista.

"Same time next week?" Carl looks… hopeful? Phil tries to tamp down the bloom of hope in his own chest.

"Sure," he croaks, hardly believing his own voice. "I'll save you a bear claw."

"It's a date." Carl raps his knuckles on the table. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Phil stares as Carl breezes out the door.

"What the fuck was that?" Conor hisses as soon as it's obvious that Carl is gone.

Phil tries not to squirm under Conor's scrutiny. "He, uh, was late yesterday? And it was storming? So I let him in, and he helped me prep dough?"

Conor stares at him. "Wow, Phil, that's like, practically a marriage proposal. You barely let _Dumo_ help prep the pastry dough."

"He just sifted flour! I didn't let him _knead_ it."

"I hope you didn't let him _knead_ anything else; that's a health-code violation."

Phil can feel his face go scarlet. " _I would never_!"

Conor eyes him for a moment longer and then concedes, "No, you probably wouldn't. Couldn't really blame you if you did, though." He pauses, curious. "Is this gonna become a thing, though?"

"I...I don't know," Phil says. He scratches at his beard. He hasn't given it much thought. He didn't even intend to invite Carl to do it again — he was just being polite — but Carl turned it into an invitation. The realization sets off sparks that feel a little like hope. "It might?"

"Yeah, man!" Conor whoops, tossing his bar towel in the air.

*

It becomes a thing. On Thursdays, Carl comes by just before closing and drinks coffee and eats his bear claw while Phil does his prep. He helps sometimes, chopping fruit or sifting flour as needed, but usually he sits and talks. Phil learns that he's an accountant, and he specializes in overseas taxes, working with American expats in Europe, which is why he finishes at the office early enough to stop at the bakery before it closes.

"It's not bad work," he says, "but it doesn't allow for creativity the way pastry-making does."

Phil snorts. "Says the man who only eats traditional bear claws."

"They're my favorite," Carl says primly.

"You haven't even tried any of the specialty ones!" It comes out more of a whine than Phil intends, but Carl just laughs.

"Why mess with a good thing? The traditional ones are very good."

"You mean they're boring," Phil insists.

"They're not. Here, have a bite." Carl picks up his bear claw and offers it to Phil.

"Nope," Phil says. "I don't eat my own pastries."

"What? What do you mean, _you don't eat your own pastries_?" Carl asks. He'd be clutching pearls if he were wearing any, and that's a mental image Phil will have to file away for later.

Phil shrugs. "I get Amanda and Dumo to taste test for me when I make something new, and I'll taste things occasionally if they say it's missing something, but once I've got a pastry figured out, I don't eat it."

Carl looks vaguely horrified, but then he turns thoughtful. "So if I tell you I think the bear claws could use a hint more almond, you'd taste one to see?"

Phil shrugs again. "Sure."

"Hmm." Carl holds his gaze for half a moment longer and then looks down at his plate. He tears a piece of the bear claw off and holds it up. "I think the almond extract isn't quite right," he says.

Phil reaches out to take the piece of pastry, but Carl pulls back. "Open your mouth," he says.

Phil complies. Carl feeds him the sticky bite of pastry, his fingers a barely-there weight against Phil's lips.

"What do you think?" Carl asks. "Is there enough almond?" Phil doesn't get a chance to answer. "Maybe that wasn't enough to tell," Carl says. "Here, have another piece."

He feeds Phil a second bite, his fingers brushing more deliberately this time.

"Enough?" he asks when Phil has swallowed that piece.

"Maybe - maybe one more," Phil rasps. Carl tears off a third piece, but instead of offering it to Phil, he leaves it on the plate.

"Phil," he says, looking at him seriously. "I'd like — I'd like to kiss you now."

Phil answers by closing the gap between them, pressing a kiss to Carl's lips. When he pulls away, Carl tugs him back, returning the kiss with dividends.

[end]


End file.
